A Slip In Time (42 page)

“‘
Tis a most joyous day at Dunraven
thus far.” He cheered and pulled back, fingering away a tear that
had trickled down her cheek. “Donald left at dawn with his groom’s
escort for the Macpherson stronghold tae wed his Mairi. Iain left,
too, though he was a mite late getting out o’ his bed and had tae
follow. He’ll hae caught up wi’ them by now. Beitris went along wi’
Donald as did some o’ the others. I took yer advice tae see the
keep emptied. I’ll be sendin’ the rest tae stay wi’ other families
and crofters in the glen. Likely, they’ll think me a daft, but ‘tis
best for them, I am thinkin’.”

Julia’s heart plummeted. “Then you
will go back?”

“Ye know I must, my heart.”

She felt her heart
splinter into a thousand
pieces. Tears sprung to her
eyes and began to cascade over her cheeks. Unable to bear the
thoug
ht, she buried her face against Rae’s
chest. His arms encircled her and held her close.

“I must see this
through,
mo cáran,
and do wha’ e’er is required for my kinsmen’s sakes. Och,
now, dinna cry. Destiny must be embraced, no’ fled. I feel its pull
on me, like the moon upon the tides, and, in m’ soul, I know there
is aught I must do — somethin’ somehow important tae the both o’
us. I wouldst hae some answers o’ my own as well, for a shadow
hangs o’er Dunraven. Ye can tell James Edwin tae write in his
books, ‘tis my belief it stretches from the grave o’ King
James.”

Rae tilted her chin to force her to
look at him. “If God and Time allows, I’ll come back tae ye,” he
vowed softly. “Ye know I will.”

The minutes dwindled, their moments to share
as brief as when first they met. Julia wondered whether she should
tell Rae of their child, if there was a child. Instead, she
swallowed back the words.

“You are with me always, in more ways
than you know.”

He brushed back her hair.
“No matter wha’ comes, ‘til my last breath and beyond, I’ll be
lovin’ ye,
mo cáran,
‘til the end o’ Time.”

Julia felt the air thicken around them. She
sank her fingers into his plaid, wishing to hold him there.

“God protect you and bring you safely
back,” she whispered.

His mouth covered hers in a final
kiss, their lips clinging to one another’s.

Suddenly, Julia found herself alone once
more. Alone with her tears and a shattered heart.

»«

Single of purpose, solemn of heart,
Rae dressed with great care, pulling on his saffron shirt, pleating
and belting his plaid in place. Drawing the excess over his
shoulder, he fastened the material with the splendid Brooch of
Glendar — the Bruce’s gift, the symbol of Mackinnon
lordship.

Five short months had he borne his title.
Tonight would be his last hours as Third Laird of Dunraven.

Rae fixed his dirk in the
front of his belt, then slipped a smaller knife under its back.
Buckling his baldric across his chest, he took up his
claidheamh mor,
its
freshly honed edge gleaming, and sheathed it in the scabbard at his
hip.

Bracing himself, Rae quit the chamber,
prepared to face the night and whatever danger lay before him.

By twos, he climbed the steps to the
upper chamber. He searched its full measure, and that of each of
the keep’s smaller, niche-like rooms.

Earlier, he’d seen Dunraven vacated by
those who resided within its walls despite more than a few
protests. ‘Twas done nonetheless. His kinsmen could make their
complaints to Donald, who after this night would become their new
laird. But Rae would not allow them to be harmed due to
him.

Climbing to the roof of the keep, he
gazed out over the darkened landscape. He could see naught of the
distance, but ‘twas quiet enough, with no sign of unrest. Of
course, many hours still lay between then and dawn.

Rae descended the spiraling stairwell
to ground level and stepped from the alcove. An eerie silence
layered the hall. Dunraven was not meant to stand empty. ‘Twas the
clansmen who gave it life. But their laughter and arguments would
ring out in this place no more. When the morrow came, the hall
would be but a smolderin’ heap — like him, passed into memory in
the annals of time.

Rae banked the fire on the hearth then
stepped outside the door and called to Lachlan and Dugal, who stood
at a short distance. As they joined him, their glances took in his
fine garments and the sword at his hip.

“Och, ye are ready for reivers are ye
no’?” Dugal’s sober smile reflected his own expectations for this
night.

“Aye, they are a canny lot,” Rae
retorted. “They hae been sore clever thus far. I suspect they e’en
know how many men left Dunraven this morn wi’ Donald. ‘Tis likely
they are watchin’ now, ready tae help themselves tae Mackinnon
cattle, thinkin’ we are vulnerable.”

“Weel, they’ll no’ be sneakin’ heifers
under our noses this night,” Lachlan swore. “We are ready for them,
wi’ double the guard at Finalty Pass as ye wished.”

Dugal nodded. “Aye, the thieves willna
be drivin’ the cattle tha’ way as probably they did
afore.”

The three spoke several more minutes before
Lachlan and Dugal began to head out to join those on watch.

“Dugal, I wouldst speak tae ye a
moment aboot tha’ matter we discussed several days past.” Rae
delayed his cousin.

As Lachlan trudged off, Dugal followed Rae
into the hall. After dipping up cups of heather ale for themselves,
they settled at a table near the hearth.

“Tell me again o’ James Graham’s
movements hereaboot in the Highlands. ‘Twas surprised I was tae
learn o’ his visits tae Dunraven. It troubles me still tae know my
father kept company wi’ the mon a’tall. Did my father so oppose the
King?”

“Oppose?” Dugal blurted
the word. “He
despised
him. Ye must understand, no sooner than ye were sent tae
London wi’ the hostages, James returned and called a gatherin’ o’
the Highland chieftains. Ye know the story — how, as the
chieftains arrived at Inverness, James threw every one o’ them into
the dungeon pit, singin’ a merry squib as he did. Yer father was
among those seized, Iain, too. He accompanied yer father’s tail,
servin’ as swordbearer.

“For months James let them rot in tha’
foul place, and for a time it seemed he would hang them all. Only
three o’ the chiefs met tha’ fate in the end, but the rest ne’er
forgot the King’s treachery or his contempt for the Highland
clans.”

Rae waited as Dugal took a long draft of
beer. Wiping his mouth, his cousin continued.

“Then, heaping salt on a wound already
raw, James kept the tax monies, raised tae pay the ransom price and
free the hostages. He lavished it on his queen and court and filled
his royal coffers. At his death — after ye and the others had
languished thirteen long years in London Tower — ‘twas learned
only a fifth o’ the ransom had been paid, a pitiful sum. Year by
year, as the ransom went unsettled, yer father, like many others,
nursed their grievances against the king. Graham was chief amongst
them. And ‘twas here, in the Highlands north o’ Perth, that Graham
and his conspirators hid and plotted the death o’ the
king.”

Rae dragged on his chin in thought.
“How did my father come to know Graham?”

Dugal shrugged. “From
Inverness, I suppose. Yer father befriended Graham for a time.
Many o’ us were impressed wi’ the mon and shared his sympathies,
Iain especially. He remembered all too well his and yer father’s
treatment at Inverness and it angered him that ye, his older
brother, remained captive tae the
sassenach.”

“But did my father support the murder
of the king?”

“Och, nae. When Graham’s talk turned
radical, Alasdair severed his ties wi’ Graham and invited him nae
more tae Dunraven. Still, Graham remained in the region, movin’
aboot, receivin’ help from others. ‘Tis likely MacChlerich lent him
aid.” Dugal shook his wooly head. “But, I wouldna be surprised if
some o’ the Mackinnons did as well, despite yer father’s
instructions. Graham was a most persuasive and rivetin’
mon.”

Long after Dugal left, Rae continued to
ponder their conversation as he waited the night out, the hall
engulfed in shadows.

He considered Malcolm MacChlerich,
who, if he had given aid to Graham, might yet fear retribution and
wish to align himself with a larger clan. With the Mackinnon lands
abutting his own, the Laird of Dunraven must have seemed a perfect
choice for his daughter, Moira.

Rae heaved a long sigh and stretched
his legs, glancing about the hall. If a fire was to break out and
consume the hall, he could not believe ‘twould be by accident. He
waited alone, the fire banked, buckets of water nearby should a
spark fly out and flame the rushes.

If Niall’s record was correct, that
left murder to be done this night.

But, why? Who would wish to kill him?
If Graham’s confederates still lurked about, subsisting on a few
pilfered cattle, why would they attack the laird of Dunraven, or
any other laird in the glens, or burn the hall around
him?

Again his thoughts circled. Why? Who gained
by his death? And what was it they gained?

If some in the clan wished for a more
warlike leader, they need only remove him, not kill him.
Personally, he had no real enemies. But, did his father? Did a feud
boil between the Mackinnons of Glendar and another clan of which he
was unaware? Or, if there were surviving conspirators, was it
possible they blamed his father for Graham’s death because his
father had withdrawn his support?

His thoughts turned to Donald. How
well did he truly know this brother — a lad of twelve when Rae left
Dunraven, twenty-five on his return? Still, ‘twas inconceivable
Donald would be capable of betraying two brothers. Yet, ‘twould not
be the first time greed drove a man to such perfidy. Donald,
whether innocent or guilty, would in fact gain from this
night.

As the hours spun out, drawing near to the
lunar and temporal shift, Rae remained unsure as to what he could
or should do.

As he waited, the
cailleach’s
words
floated back to him. “Seek the stone’s protection. ‘Twill deliver
ye from harm when naught else can.”

“Deliver” him? To the future? If so,
Rae realized, ‘twas the protection of Julia’s stone he would need
seek. But would he even have the chance to do so?

Shouts suddenly erupted without,
shattering the silence, as horses pounded into the foreyard of
Dunraven Castle.

Rae thrust to his feet, his muscles tensing
as he hastened toward the door. Had the reivers struck at last?
Did a clansman or two ride back to give warning? But Rae saw now
that more than a few horsemen filled the yard. At the distance, in
the dark, he could not immediately identify them as they dismounted
and moved to speak with his men who kept guard.

“What goes there?” Rae shouted out as
he filled the portal, reining every impulse to race out into the
midst of the men, knowing ‘twas here, within the hall, fate must be
played out. “Hae reivers struck?” he called out again.

At that a figure broke from the knot
of the men and rushed forward. As he came into the torchlight Rae
saw ‘twas Iain.

Rae stepped back a pace as his brother
verged on the threshold and entered the hall. His clothes were
slashed, blood staining them, his cheeks and hands.

“Reivers? Nae,
brother.
Camerons,”
Iain spat out, wiping the back of his hand across his
forehead, leaving a smear of blood. “I warned ye, but ye wouldna
listen. A party o’ Camerons attacked Donald’s escort. I told ye
they wouldna brook this marriage. Their reiving was but a
warnin’.”

“What matter is it tae the Camerons
who Donald weds?”

“Not tae all the Camerons, but tae one
— Ronald Cameron, Lochiel’s nephew. Had ye been here these last
years, ye’d know o’ his grievance. Ronald claims Mairi was promised
tae him and vows she’ll be his still and no other’s.”

“Why was I no’ told o’
this?”

Anger flashed across Iain’ s features
and he closed a step between them, his eyes burning.

“Ye wouldna listen,
brother. Ye wouldna ride down the Camerons when they reived our
cattle. We could have had it oot wi’ them then. D’ye leave yer
spine in London Tower,
bràthair,
or will ye ride wi’ me now? Now tha’ Donald lays
dead upon the road, by Ronald Cameron’s sword.”

“Donald?” Rae legs near buckled
beneath him at Iain’s pronouncement. He looked at his brother
aghast and found Iain choked with emotion, a storm of anger upon
his brows, tears brimming his eyes.

“D’ye hear wha’ I say?”
Iain blazed, his features twisted in anguish, his voice cracking.
“Donald is
dead,
and Tavis and Colm are lost, too. Come,
bràthair
. We must hurry!” Iain
pivoted and headed for the door. “Let us cut some Cameron
throats!”

Lacerated to the soul, Rae
started to follow Iain out.
Donald was not
to have died,
his whole being cried
out.
This was not the way ‘twas to
be.

Rae halted in his
footsteps. “‘Tis
no’
wha’ happened,” he muttered aloud to himself, the images of
Donald’s and Mairi’s descendants staring at him in his mind’s eye,
gazing past paint and frames in Dunraven’s gallery, testifying to
their forebearer’s blood, passed down.